RavenStag

Pottery didn't turn out because Robby had set the speed on the wheel too high, sending his vase flying. When Jack doubled over in laughter, he accidentally smashed his vase in turn.

Next, Jack signed them up for craft club at the library. He pictured a knitting group, run by sweet old ladies. Instead, they were doing tie-die.

"I feel like I'm at summer camp," Jack grumbled, dunking his shirt.

"Maybe it's all the 8-year-olds around," Robby quipped.

That got Jack's attention. With an increasing sense of horror, he looked around the room and realized that it was all 8-year-olds. They were the oldest people in the group, by a margin of 40 years.

"The website said all ages!" He defended.

"All ages of kid, probably."

Deciding it would be more weird if they left, they kept their heads down and dyed their ties. Of course Jack's shirt looked like someone had taken a bad acid trip in a downpour, while Robby's looked incredible. It was beautifully done: the colors a perfect compliment, the pattern flawless. It practically looked professional.

And because Robby was an asshole who loved to rub his triumphs in Jack's face, he wore it constantly.

Next up, they decided to try card night at a game shop. Except when they walked in, it became immediately apparent that they were thinking of the wrong kind of cards.

Jack thought it might be a fun poker night, maybe they'd learn to play gin rummy or canasta or something. Instead, the room was filled with what seemed to be a deeply tense game of Magic: the Gathering.

"You know," Jack said, trying to save it. "I played Dungeons and Dragons in college. It was pretty fun."

"If you're honestly about to suggest that I play a roleplaying game, I will kill you." Robby huffed.

"No roleplay?" Jack let out a heartbroken sigh. "I guess you'll never get to see me as a flight attendant, then."

Robby smacked the back of his head.

Robby picked the next hobby because obviously, Jack could not be trusted. He found a crochet class for beginners held at a local yarn shop. It was everything Jack had thought craft club would be, with a reassuring lack of children.

Jack thought crochet wouldn't be too bad- after all, everyone said how easy it was. It was not easy. Not at all.

He looked on in open hostility when Robby turned out perfect granny square after perfect granny square, while Jack's creation looked less like a granny square and more like someone had tried to make a doily in a pitch-black room, using only their thumbs, after having the concept described to them.

Robby had a masterpiece. Jack had a tangle of yarn with aspirations.

Of course, the instructor just had to rub it in.

"These are amazing!" She exclaimed, looking over Robby's work. "You've never crocheted before?"

"Never!" He grinned, the absolute suck-up. "It's not that hard."

Jack knew a pointed jab when he heard one. He stuck his tongue out at Robby behind her back.

"You must have magic fingers," she said before moving on, causing Jack to laugh so hard he stabbed himself with his crochet hook.

"Oooh, Dr. Robinavitch, can I get a demonstration of your magic fingers?" He purred, batting his eyelashes.

"I'm going to shove my magic fingers up your ass," Robby threatened.

Jack would love that, actually. "Don't threaten me with a good time," he quipped.

Robby flipped him off.

Jack was never going to let him live that down. Found an airway when everyone wanted to intubate? "Look at those magic fingers go." Dropped something? "Magic fingers not working too well, huh?" During a tense procedure, he just muttered, "Magic," while wiggling his fingers back and forth.

None of their coworkers asked. It was just another one of the many esoteric jokes the two of them shared.

Their next outing was to a Paint and Sip class at a cafe. There was going to be alcohol and Robby had promised him it was going to be easy- that they were aimed towards beginners and all you had to do was follow the instructor.

Jack was great at following orders- after all, he had been in the military for seven years. However. It seemed he was not good at painting.

"How are you so bad at everything?" Robby snickered, taking in Jack's canvas. "You're one of the best doctors I know."

"One of?" Jack asked, already offended.

"After myself, of course."

Jack glared at him and before Robby could react, he leant over and painted big red slashes all over Robby's canvas.

Suffice to say, they got kicked out of Paint and Sip too.

On the way home, Jack threw his painting in the first trash can he came across, but Robby hung his up in a place of pride on his living room wall. He was such a fucking asshole.

Deciding that Jack needed a win, Robby let him pick the next activity.

"We should try fencing," Jack declared at hand-off.

"I am not spending my precious spare time rebuilding your fence." Robby was already exhausted from the all the hobby-finding, he wasn't going to give Jack free labor on top of it.

"No, like with swords," he explained, miming stabbing Robby in the stomach. "Legally approved violence. Haven't you ever wanted to stab me?"

"Only every day for the past 30 years," Robby grumbled. He was not a sporty man. However, he did feel a little bad for all the misadventures recently, so he agreed- albeit, with much complaining.

It turned out, they don't just give you foils- not swords- when you walk through the door. You have to earn your foil by learning footwork first. Robby should have realized that telling Jack, the most competitive person he had ever met, that you needed to prove your worth would spell disaster.

Jack became obsessed; he was going to get his foil come hell or high water, and he was going to drag Robby along with him. They spent weeks doing the same drills over and over, doing lunges until Robby's thighs ached, but it was almost worth it for the way Jack's face lit up when the instructor handed them their practice blades.

Almost, because now, instead of watching a nice football game in their downtime, Jack made him stand in the backyard in 90 degree heat wearing their heavy fucking fencing jackets, practicing. Robby regretted ever meeting him, ever going to therapy, ever being born.

Eventually, they got their electric foils and electric vests and were set loose in the class to actually fight. If Robby thought that maybe he would get a break now that Jack had other kids to play with, he was dead wrong. Jack wanted to win.

Twice a week, they attended lessons for an hour, followed by another hour of matches, where Robby sweated buckets in his stupid jacket and stupid mask and got stupid bruises all over his thighs from blows that glanced off of his chest.

Jack however, was thriving. It was unfair, actually, how good Jack looked in his get-up; he even insisted on buying fencing knickers, to Robby's great consternation. The first time he saw Jack in his stupid breeches with the suspenders, he had to do a deep breathing exercise lest he pop a boner in the middle of class.

While Robby looked like a steamed lobster post-bout, Jack looked like he had just climbed out of a magazine. Soaked in sweat, curls a little smushed from the mask, he was still the most beautiful thing Robby had ever seen. Torture. It was sheer, utter torture.

The torture was somehow worth it for the way Jack crowed with delight the first time he won a bout and then immediately came over to ruffle Robby's hair.

"Do you want to get a beer after this?" Jack asked as they left the fencing studio. Thankfully, he had taken the suspenders off of his shoulders, though they still looked unfairly good, hanging around his thighs.

"We smell disgusting," Robby pointed out. Fencing was not like going to the gym, you really sweated an obscene amount in those jackets. "We'd likely get kicked out of any bar right now."

"We wouldn't get kicked out of Danny's," Jack wheedled, bumping his bag against Robby's.

Robby shuddered. "You are not dragging me to that health hazard disguised as a bar. Pretty sure I got typhus last time you took me there."

"Okay," Jack dragged the word out. "Then we could go to my house."

That sounded much more appealing. "I'll need to shower when we get there," Robby said. He really was disgusting.

"Wanna share?" Jack asked casually, not even breaking his stride.

"I- uh- well, yes?" Robby stuttered. Not his most eloquent moment, but it wasn't every day your best friend of 30 years asked you to shower with him.

He waited for Jack to take it back, to say that he had just been kidding and of course, he would never actually want to shower with Robby, but he didn't. Instead, Jack slung his arm around Robby's waist and kissed his shoulder.